Yesterday on my way to work I listened to an interview about a new book on sports science on NPR. The guest was Mark McClusky, an editor with WIRED.com, who discussed his new book Faster, Higher, Stronger - a book on sports science. The interview discussed Mark's research into a number of methods that elite athletes use to attain better performance - many of which I have or intend to explore - so I decided to get a copy. My copy arrived today and I dove into a chapter in the middle called "What Getting Tired Means".
The chapter highlights the theories of sports scientist Tim Noakes, who contends that fatigue is not a physiological state caused by the increase in lactate (or acidification) of muscles but rather a mental state, "a combination of the brain reading various physiological, subconscious and conscious signals and using these to pace the muscles in order to ensure that the body does not burn out before the finish line is reached."
Faster, Higher, Stronger implies that Mr. Noakes' view remains controversial in the sports science field and, in my opinion, with good reason (although I do think there are some interesting ideas and takeaways). For one, muscle fatigue is not limited to elite athletes or endurance sports. Muscle fatigue and fatigue in general has an entirely different context in the world of chronic illness. Just the other night, while blow drying daughter's hair, turning the two pound hair dryer quickly back and forth so as not to leave the heat concentrated in any one place for too long, my forearm muscles began to tire. They got heavy, much the same as used to occur when I was able to exercise at a high level, and ultimately struggled to hold up the two pound hair dryer. I think it unlikely that muscle fatigue in this case was my brain trying to pace the use of my forearm to dry my daughter's hair.
That said, the correlation between the mind and exercise performance appears real from what I have read. The brain is the control center of the body, regulating your body's systems (e.g. circulatory, nervous). Each of those systems includes various organs and other tissues that have different functions, require different resources (e.g. oxygen, minerals, vitamins), and produce different waste products. The brain cannot override the number resources required or eliminate the waste products; however, it can push through the normal safety limits for short periods of time.
It is possible that Mr. Noakes' view is more nuanced that implied in Faster, Higher, Stronger by Mr. McClusky - that he is attributing the very small increase in exercise performance of "gold medal" athletes that allows them to temporarily push through the body's safety switches (by trickery or mental fortitude) - but the notion that fatigue is somehow an emotional or mental state does not seem plausible in the context of illness induced fatigue.
Showing posts with label Fatigue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fatigue. Show all posts
Friday, October 31, 2014
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Depths of Illness - Fatigue
It started on the Appalachian Trail (AT). I had been hiking upwards of 20 miles a day. A good hiking pace on the AT is around 3 miles an hour, meaning a 20 mile day would take somewhere south of 7 hours (not including breaks). For long-distance hikers, 7 hours of hiking is fairly enjoyable when you start early in the morning. But if you don't start early in the morning, 7 hours of hiking is much less enjoyable.
I don't remember when my mileage started to drop. But I do remember that it started when I no longer began hiking in the early morning. I remember being tired - too tired to wake up with the sun. I delayed getting out of [sleeping] bag until hours after the sun rose. When I finally did get up, I plodded around the campsite, delaying departure, for as long as I dared. Then, when I started to hike my muscles felt heavy, my feet ached, and my shoulders burned. Trekking up and down the mountain trail, over rocks and roots, through meadow and forest, seemed endless. A mile seemed like ten. Ten seemed like an eternity. I stopped to take naps in the middle of the day. I woke up groggy with many miles yet to go. I would usually push on. My mileage dropped to somewhere south of 15 miles per day. It would have dropped further had I not gotten off the trail to rest at my parents house in Gettysburg.
During the time I spent resting and looking for a cause to and treatment for my illness the fatigue was more bearable, but it did not get better. I had no schedule to keep, so I could wake up when I wanted, take naps when I wanted, lay around when I wanted. But after a month or so of rest and significant medical consultation there was no confirmed diagnosis. I could not lay around my parents house forever. Life had to go on.
To be closer to my girlfriend, I took a job installing solar panels in the north east. Once again, I had a schedule. No more sleeping in. No more naps. I woke up early. I slunk around like a sloth. I climbed ladders and lifted 100 lb. solar panels. My muscles weakened. Lifting and climbing became harder. My muscles felt like were filled with concrete that was slowly hardening. At the end of the day, I could do no more than lay down. Cooking dinner, nearly impossible. Bed time became earlier and earlier. The extra sleep didn't help.
On the weekends, there was a little relief. I could sleep in and take naps. My girlfriend wanted to do things - go for walks, go out to see bands, go hiking, go to the farmer's market, go to the beach, go cross-country skiing. I didn't. I wanted to be immobile. We did as much as I could bare. But our outings rarely lasted more than an hour or two before I was too tired to continue. My girlfriend understood that I was not well. She was gracious and accommodating. I felt guilty. I wanted to give her more. I couldn't.
In January of 2006, my girlfriend and I moved to San Diego. I got an engineering job. The fatigue continued, only now the fatigue in my body was mirrored in my mind. I could think and rationalize and remember, but not for prolonged periods of time. Mornings were best. Afternoons were difficult. My focus would drift. My eyes would become heavy. Working was nearly impossible. I faked my way through it, often saving drafting (mostly mindless) for the afternoon. At the end of the day, I could do no more than lay down. Cooking dinner, nearly impossible. Bed time remained early. Sleep didn't help. Making friends was virtually impossible. I remained at home while my girlfriend went out. I slept while the world moved.
I don't remember when my mileage started to drop. But I do remember that it started when I no longer began hiking in the early morning. I remember being tired - too tired to wake up with the sun. I delayed getting out of [sleeping] bag until hours after the sun rose. When I finally did get up, I plodded around the campsite, delaying departure, for as long as I dared. Then, when I started to hike my muscles felt heavy, my feet ached, and my shoulders burned. Trekking up and down the mountain trail, over rocks and roots, through meadow and forest, seemed endless. A mile seemed like ten. Ten seemed like an eternity. I stopped to take naps in the middle of the day. I woke up groggy with many miles yet to go. I would usually push on. My mileage dropped to somewhere south of 15 miles per day. It would have dropped further had I not gotten off the trail to rest at my parents house in Gettysburg.
During the time I spent resting and looking for a cause to and treatment for my illness the fatigue was more bearable, but it did not get better. I had no schedule to keep, so I could wake up when I wanted, take naps when I wanted, lay around when I wanted. But after a month or so of rest and significant medical consultation there was no confirmed diagnosis. I could not lay around my parents house forever. Life had to go on.
To be closer to my girlfriend, I took a job installing solar panels in the north east. Once again, I had a schedule. No more sleeping in. No more naps. I woke up early. I slunk around like a sloth. I climbed ladders and lifted 100 lb. solar panels. My muscles weakened. Lifting and climbing became harder. My muscles felt like were filled with concrete that was slowly hardening. At the end of the day, I could do no more than lay down. Cooking dinner, nearly impossible. Bed time became earlier and earlier. The extra sleep didn't help.
On the weekends, there was a little relief. I could sleep in and take naps. My girlfriend wanted to do things - go for walks, go out to see bands, go hiking, go to the farmer's market, go to the beach, go cross-country skiing. I didn't. I wanted to be immobile. We did as much as I could bare. But our outings rarely lasted more than an hour or two before I was too tired to continue. My girlfriend understood that I was not well. She was gracious and accommodating. I felt guilty. I wanted to give her more. I couldn't.
In January of 2006, my girlfriend and I moved to San Diego. I got an engineering job. The fatigue continued, only now the fatigue in my body was mirrored in my mind. I could think and rationalize and remember, but not for prolonged periods of time. Mornings were best. Afternoons were difficult. My focus would drift. My eyes would become heavy. Working was nearly impossible. I faked my way through it, often saving drafting (mostly mindless) for the afternoon. At the end of the day, I could do no more than lay down. Cooking dinner, nearly impossible. Bed time remained early. Sleep didn't help. Making friends was virtually impossible. I remained at home while my girlfriend went out. I slept while the world moved.
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